


Down and Up

by CandlelightFool



Category: Eurovision Song Contest: The Story of Fire Saga
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Fix-It, Short One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-08
Updated: 2020-07-08
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:53:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25148761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CandlelightFool/pseuds/CandlelightFool
Summary: Very short one-shot, Lars reconsidered.
Relationships: Sigrit Ericksdóttir/Lars Erickssong
Comments: 3
Kudos: 17





	Down and Up

**Author's Note:**

> so the feels of him just walking away, I'm still pissed. Sigrit deserved better.

The onslaught of the lights, and the audience, and the pitying looks of the other contestants, were like sandpaper on her feelings. Her heart felt raw, and her throat, sure to bruise, and all of her close-held hopes; for a contest that was only secondary to the real prize. Still, Sigrit limped forward, making her way to the Icelandic seat, as her heart hammered in her chest. She would not cry, she would take her defeat with grace. What she needed was an ice-pack, and to lose her heels.

Sigrit _might_ have cried, sitting here alone, until Lemtov slid over into the long-seat.

The minutes ticked by one embarrassing second after the other, but she breathed into the moment. Lemtov was a comforting presence at her side, and it made her realise her world had not ended, but broadened. The buzz of the commentators was welcome in its distraction, and it was almost like looking at strangers. Sigrit felt like a stranger; up was down, down was up.

"Where is your partner?" Lemtov questioned softly, as Greece was giving up their points.

"I don't know."

"He is a coward."

Sigrit did not have the strength to defend Lars, and did not have a better word. She had seen the fear in Lars, cracking at every turn, and caking over the damage with glitter and scarves. She had wanted to draw him closer, but instead he put in enough background dancers that it was impossible to recognise the heart of the song in it at all.

"Mh," Lemtov murmured, "Maybe I stand corrected."

Sigrit frowned, watching the commentator of Belgium dole out their points. Eight to Iceland, as faraway as a dream.

It wasn't until ten points went to Russia that she shook herself out of it.

There was more sound around them, everyone gearing up for those last rounds. Suddenly there was a solid shape on her left, Lars-sized, slouching and sparkling silver. Sigrit's breath caught as Lars promptly sat down, and her hands clenched into the white fabric of her dress. Lemtov noticeably tensed, and while Europe was here judge her, she hoped Lemtov would not, for she considered him a friend already.

Lars sat rigidly in his chair, face drawn and hair askew. It took all of her strength not to reach out.

Three more countries to go, but it felt like forever. It was very hard to care about the competition when Lars was so near, when he looked like this was the last place he wanted to be, when he had flown on the ground, and the first thing he said was _Sigrit_. When he walked away like it all meant nothing, and it's enough to slump back into the couch.

"Eight points to Iceland!"

Lemtov gave her an encouraging nudge, while Sigrid peeked at Lars again.

Lars glanced away, caught like a school-boy. He forced his attention on the large television screen, and did a double-take. "We're tenth," he announced, bewildered.

"We're tenth," Sigrit repeated, voice raspy. "I don't understand this."

Lemtov grinned. "This is crazy."

Lars' face clouded over, but he carefully put his hand in the space between them, palm up.

Sigrit looked forward, but reached out. And she didn't let go.

She didn't let go when Iceland was officially voted into the Finale. All the better to drag him away, as soon as the opportunity arose. "Congratulations, Lemtov," she only yelled over her shoulder, Lars' hand warm in hers. Both still worse for the wear, but Sigrit felt as light as if she was strapped to the white-feathered wings. Lars, meek in his repentance, let himself be led backstage. 

They powered through, and she was breathless when she dropped his hand, deciding on an empty hallway. 

"I thought you left," Sigrit accused as she turned to him.

"I did," Lars said. "They almost didn't let me in again."

Sigrit rested her hand on his chest. "You should stop doing that."

Lars didn't move.

With renewed courage, Sigrit stood up on her toes, touching her mouth to his in a fleeting moment. "What other drama can happen?"

"Aren't you angry?"

"Oh yes," she said, smiling. "I'm _so_ angry."

"Sigrit," he complained.

Sigrit laughed, still hurt but not broken. "Well, I am. I am angry, but you came back, and I wrote a song for you. A wheel almost _crushed_ me, and we're going to the Finale. I might have a concussion." She kissed him again. "The elves don't hate us."

Lars blinked. "Of course not, you gave them the good whiskey."


End file.
